


A Chance Encounter

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-01
Updated: 2009-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-21 19:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Suppose Mark had learned sooner of what Bridget had been led to believe about him… A/U.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all getting very fractal-pattern, spinning A/Us out of the simplest change in scenarios… but it sure is fun to draw and follow those spirals, isn't it?
> 
> Disclaimer: V. much not mine.

Of all the people to turn up at the party, Daniel was the last person Mark expected to see. What surprised him more was that Daniel hadn't brought _her_.

Mark hadn't even decided to go until the last minute, so busy was he in organising his life, reassigning or wrapping up open cases, putting things into storage and otherwise securing the house until he could sell it. His assistant Rebecca, however, had seen how hard he'd been working, how much he needed to take a break, relax, maybe have a few drinks, and talked him into going with her, even though it was being held at a nightclub to which he'd never been before, one to which he would not have been inclined to go on his own.

He didn't know anyone else there besides Rebecca, so he'd stayed fairly close to her side. Daniel he didn't notice until too late, and it was that sort of place, the crowd was just small enough, that it was going to be impossible to go the evening without acknowledging each others' presence. Daniel seemed to feel the same way, judging by the grimace that found its way to his features.

"What is it, Mark?" asked Rebecca, glancing to him, then to the man with whom he'd locked eyes. "Who is that?"

"No one," said Mark stiffly, even as the inevitable conversation drew nearer and nearer; Daniel was approaching him.

"I…" she began, then faltered, and looked back to Mark. "I think I need to use the ladies."

She shot off towards the ladies' room as Daniel got within earshot.

"Darcy," said Daniel. "You're the last person I would have expected to see at a trendy nightclub."

"I wouldn't have come under ordinary circumstances," he said tersely. "You're the last person I expected to see here alone. Where is she, then?"

"'She'?"

"I left, you stayed that night," Mark said.

The light dawned, and for a brief moment, Daniel looked taken aback before speaking. "How would I know where she is? Not like she took me back—not that I can really blame her." Daniel drank from his cocktail. "To be honest, with the way you were clearly undressing her in your mind (and she's hotter than _you_ can possibly imagine, you old woman)… I half-expected you would've somehow gotten her into bed despite what I told her, and you'd be here with her instead of that cute little titless thing." As an aside, he added, "…Clearly too young for you."

Under ordinary circumstances, Mark would have been so angry he would have been gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to knock Daniel flat on his arse, but instead it was Mark's turn to be stunned by the admission that his former best friend was there alone. He said the first thing that came to mind apart from the mental image of a certain bunny girl: "I'm not with Rebecca."

Daniel gave him a disbelieving look. "Never understood that about you, Darcy. You're with a gorgeous woman who clearly fits your type and you deny—"

"We're just friends," he said curtly.

Daniel simply regarded Mark for many moments. "Stepping out on your snooty girlfriend, then?" he asked at last; he must have meant Natasha.

His personal life was none of Daniel's business, nor was Rebecca's; he said nothing.

"So it's all right if I have a crack at her?" asked Daniel.

"You can try," said Mark with some level of amusement, knowing what he did about Rebecca's proclivities.

Daniel was clearly torn between trying and being suspicious of Mark's reply. In the end, without another word, Daniel stepped away.

Mark, however, hardly noticed; Daniel's words had gotten him to thinking. She had not taken Daniel back, despite the direction in which things had seemed to go on that November evening, when that attraction had sparked and had seemed to hold the promise of even more.

He wondered too what Daniel had meant by what he'd said:

_…despite what I told her._

"Everything all right?" asked Rebecca. She had veritably appeared out of nowhere, surprising him.

He wanted to say yes, everything was all right, but he felt too unsettled. The odd thing was that he wasn't even sure why. They'd only had one meaningful day together, and aside from that, a handful of scattered moments, most of which were not entirely pleasant, but those that were pleasant were very much so. He thought of her sitting out on the boat in the sunlight on that glorious summer day; answering the door covered in orange-scented crème and the way she'd smiled at him across the dinner table on her birthday….

"I guess not," said Rebecca, answering her own question, deducing correctly.

"It's… it's rather noisy in here," said Mark at last. "Do you mind if I leave?"

"I don't mind," she said, "on the condition that you promise you won't head back to working."

Mark smiled, though felt it was probably unconvincing. "I won't."

He honestly had other things on his mind.

………

He took a taxi home, but was not inside for five minutes when he felt he wanted to be anywhere but his big, lonely house; the ticking of the clock in the foyer seemed to echo through the hall, making it feel that much bigger and lonelier.

He decided to take a walk to work off the built-up agitation, to help clear his head, straighten out his thoughts, remind himself of his duties and realign his priorities.

It would not do to think about her, not at all. He had plans in motion to further his career in the New World beginning in about two weeks; he had plans to remedy the loneliness by asking Natasha to become his wife. He had nothing to complain about—and yet—

He could only picture that radiant smile, those sparkling eyes, that irreverent, playful demeanour.

Walking quickly, his hands balled into fists in his pockets, looking to the ground but focused intently on his thoughts, he turned a corner and in that instant collided into another person coming in the other direction, knocking them down and causing them to land on the ground with a great "Ooof!"

He stepped back and in his shock could only say the name of the very woman of which he had only just been thinking.

"Bridget?"

"You should watch where you're going," she said grumpily, staring up at him from her seat on the ground, squinting, clearly trying to make out exactly who he was and why he knew her name; the fact that he was probably lit from behind by a streetlight did not help her efforts. She was wearing a short grey coat over her very attractive skirt and blouse, but the position in which she had landed was not particularly ladylike or graceful. His gaze wandered despite himself, and to make up for it, he held out his hand to help her up.

"I can get up on my own," she said, turning to get to her knees, leaning on her hand. "And watch where you're pointing your eyes, _sir_."

He felt his skin flood with heat as he fixed his gaze on her hair. "I'm very sorry about this," he said.

She paused in her effort to get to her feet and turned to look at him again. "Mark?" she asked, finally placing him.

"Yes." He held his hand out again. "Please, let me help you."

This time she accepted his hand and was up on her feet in short order.

"So where's the fire?" she asked, brushing her hands down over her skirt, first the front to smooth it, then over the back to brush off dirt and debris. The simple action of her hands passing over her backside distracted him, not that he had any idea what she was talking about, anyway; she looked at him, eyes wide, as if willing him to understand, then took mercy on him and explained: "Where were you going in such a hurry?"

"Walking," he said, rather stupidly, then added, "Thinking."

"Perhaps you should be thinking less and paying attention more when you're walking," she retorted, her hand still hovering on her rear end. "That really hurt."

"Point taken," he said. "I said I was sorry."

There was an awkward silence following, during which Mark cleared his throat and put his hands back in his pockets. "So," he said. "Heading home?"

"Yes."

He realised at this that she was swaying a little bit as she stood; it was possible she was on her way home from a night out with her friends. "Shall I walk you the rest of the way to your place? Make sure I didn't damage anything permanently."

He caught a smile flitting across her face. "I suppose."

They walked side by side; he slowed his pace down to meet her somewhat unsteady one. "So," she said after a few minutes. "Looks like you healed up all right."

He could not help smiling at her reference to the street brawl (such as it was) with Daniel on the night of her birthday. "No permanent damage here, either."

"Blood came out of your shirt?"

"With a little work, yes."

"Mm," she said. "That's good. It looked like an expensive shirt."

He smiled again. Neither he or she said anything more for many moments.

"I'm sorry, you know," he said. "About that night."

He glanced over and saw her look to him.

"I shouldn't have called him out to the street," he continued. "He and I have our history, but I should not have ruined your birthday like that."

"It's all right," she said, but there was a sense to her words that it wasn't. In fact, her tone had gone slightly cool again.

Prompted by this reaction, Mark thought again of Daniel's words— _despite what I told her_ —and before he could stop himself, he asked, "Did Daniel tell you about our history?"

She exhaled; he could see the cloud of her breath trailing behind her as they carried on walking. "About his fiancée. And you. So yeah."

Mark drew his brows together. Himself and a fictional fiancée of Daniel's? No wonder she thought he was a total jerk, no better than Cleaver; it sounded like he had altered the truth just enough to be an easily remembered lie. "Hm," he said thoughtfully. "And if I told you there was no fiancée?"

She stopped, turning to face him. They were within sight of her flat now. "What? Why would he make up a whole story?"

"He didn't make it up," said Mark. "He took the actual facts and changed the roles of the players to paint himself in a better light with you."

"I still don't understand—"

She broke off abruptly. If it was because she suddenly connected the dots, he wasn't sure, so he decided to expand on it to make it crystal clear. "I know you have no real reason to believe me when I say there was no fiancée," Mark said again, "but it's true. There was a _wife_ , and she was _my_ wife."

Bridget stared at him, clearly rendered speechless.

"Unbelievable," she said at last.

"It's true."

She blinked. "No. I meant him. That he'd lie like that."

"Are you really surprised?"

She blinked again. "No, I don't suppose that I am." She looked down. "I feel like an idiot for believing him. If he were here right now, I'd help you punch him this time."

A laugh erupted unbidden from his throat, and her eyes flashed up to meet his as it did.

"I'm kind of, you know, glad you ran into me," she continued. As she said this, as she smiled, her eyes got slightly softer, her expression warmer and more open, and just like that, Mark felt his life get that much more complicated:

He was scheduled to leave at the end of the month for New York, where he planned to settle in with a woman who in his eyes was a safe, known quantity, settle into a career that would be lucrative; now those feelings that had been pushed down that night after the fight in the street were surfacing again on the strength of her look, her smile. Now he felt himself less and less eager to proceed as scheduled. In fact, it was quickly becoming the opposite.

She continued talking. "Glad we got that… misunderstanding cleared up."

He realised he had been silent for far too long, lost in his own thoughts. "Yes," he said quickly. "So am I."

Within a few moments they were at her building's door, and she turned to look up at him again with a shy smile. "I know it's late," she said, "but if you'd care for a little coffee to warm you before your long walk back…"

He found himself smiling and agreeing. "Thank you. That would be nice."

He followed her up, and after slipping out of her grey jacket, she went straight for her kitchen. He divested himself of his own long woollen coat, and as he draped it over the banister, he heard mild swearing emanating from the kitchen.

"What's the matter?" he called back.

"Oh," she said, sighing. "You'll think me cursed in the kitchen."

"Why would I think that?" he asked, joining her by the hob.

"I offer you coffee, and have nothing but the bottom of a pot I made before I went out."

He didn't see a kettle, and he hated tea made with hot water from a microwave; he frankly thought the idea of old, reheated coffee to be a little appalling, but she looked so embarrassed and yet so earnest, he said, "That'll be fine. Thank you."

Her smile was a clear indication of her relief. "Great. Um, you can sit on the sofa if you like. I'll bring it right out."

"Great," he repeated, heading for her sofa.

While not spotless, her living room area was reasonably clean; the clutter and muss, though, lent a certain homey quality to her place that he liked very much. She came in to see him looking around and very obviously mistook his scrutiny.

"Ugh, I know," she said. "It's awful in here."

"No," he said. "It's lovely here."

"I'm pretty sure you're just being polite," she said, handing him a cup, "but thank you for that."

He looked down into the cup. The coffee was pale caramel coloured. She had put milk in it.

"Oh," she said, correctly interpreting what must have been a telling look. "I'm sorry. I should have asked."

"No," he said. "This is fine." He took a sip. It nearly made his mouth pucker from the sweetness but he resisted grimacing. "Delicious."

He looked to her. She was clearly feeling deflated. "You forget: I've seen you lie about my cooking before."

He chuckled. "The coffee's really not that bad. Just a little… sweeter than I was expecting." He took another sip to prove his point, and could only think that between the caffeine and the sugar, he might just be up the rest of the night.

She offered a little half smile. "Thanks." She drank her own. "Oh." She smacked her tongue loudly. "This _is_ a bit sweet, isn't it?"

"A bit."

She laughed, which made him laugh, but neither set their coffees aside.

"So, work," he said, shooting for a little small talk, which ordinarily he hated, but he wanted to fill the silence, to keep talking with her. She immediately made a face, bringing her cup up to her lips again. "What have they got you doing these days? Bungee-jumping off of London Bridge? Jet-skiing down the Thames?"

At this she chuckled, which made her inhale her coffee, and she started to cough. Concerned, he leaned towards her, but she held up a hand. Her eyes met his as she shook with her amused choking until at last she swallowed. "Mark," she managed at last, her voice a little crackly. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"I swear I'm not," he said, fighting a laugh.

"Trust me, my work's not worth dying for." Her hand was still pressed to her larynx, but the wrong-pipe crisis had clearly passed. Clearing her throat, and sounding a little more like herself again, she said wryly, "I really have to wonder if it's possible for me to spend any amount of time around you without humiliating myself."

He thought of that summer day, the sunlight, her laughter; of her smile and the way she'd looked at him on her birthday. He said, "Absolutely possible."

She might have had a smart remark on the tip of her tongue, but something caused her to hold back and not say anything at all, just offer a smile. 

They each finished their coffee (they were not large servings) and he set his empty cup down on the little table there. "Well. It's late. I should probably head home."

She nodded, rising as he did. "At least you have coffee fortifications."

"Very true."

He went to put his coat back on, and when he turned he was a little surprised to see her standing there. "Maybe, I don't know—maybe I'll see you around," she said tentatively.

"I'd like that very much," he said.

She smiled, nodded, then walked with him down the stairs to the flat door.

"Good night," he said, "and thanks for understanding."

"What?"

"My knocking you down."

"Oh," she said, laughing lightly again. "I think in the end it was worth a bruised bottom."

He smiled and passed by into the hall, considering giving her a quick kiss good night as he did, but in the end decided against it; it was too soon.

He wanted very much to see her again, though, to get to the point where he could give her that kiss good night, but he had some things to take care of first.

………

On the face of it, it might have seemed an easy decision to make: go with the sure thing, the ready-made wife and perfect social partner, the profitable career, the security and stability of the plans that were already in place. He thought about it constantly over the course of the next couple of days. He made lists of pros and cons: comfort versus the terrifying unknown; the difficulty of undoing all those well-laid plans all for something that was far from a certainty. He struggled to explain to himself why this was a decision he was considering making at all until he realised that no explanation was needed because no amount of logic factored into it; what appeared to be a cut-and-dried choice did not account for gut instinct, that feeling of rightness when he was with Bridget that overrode all rational thought on the subject. So when all was said and done, the decision had indeed been an easy one, just not the one Natasha was expecting when he finally told her he had news about the move.

"You've lost your mind."

The way she stared at him, he was beginning to think she truly thought so.

"On the contrary," he said, "I haven't felt such a sense of clarity in years."

"But to reject everything—the prestige, the position, the money, me—why?" She didn't seem sad, but she had always been more materialistic than romantic, evidenced by the placement of herself in that list. She seemed more surprised than anything that he would turn down what she considered the opportunity of a lifetime.

"It isn't what I really want," he said. "For too long I have accepted what I was handed because I thought I should, or I thought something better might not come along."

"And has something better come along?" she said, a hint of her usual fire in her words.

"Perhaps," he said. "I can't leave not knowing."

She regarded him with steely eyes.

"I'm sorry," he added.

"You're not sorry," she stated tartly.

"I'm not sorry that I'm doing what I feel is best for me for once," he amended, "but I am sorry if this hurts you personally." He paused; he didn't think it would be kind to actually say out loud that he never really loved her. "There's no reason why you still can't go to New York."

"Oh, I plan to," she said. She still had an air of faint disbelief about her, and she shook her head. "I can't believe you're doing this. You're walking away from a lot."

"I am fully aware of that," he said. "But I hope to gain so much more."

………

In all honesty, Mark didn't like to use the telephone. There was so much to be gained in a face-to-face interaction, so much subtlety in the expression that accompanied spoken words; the years he'd spent training for then practising law had helped him hone these perceptual abilities, even as they'd ironically helped him develop his skills in hiding his own emotions and thoughts from those around him.

It was this dislike of the telephone that brought him to be standing at the door of Bridget's flat, ready to knock, ready to take that first step into uncharted territory.

However, he did not get the chance because the door seemed to swing open of its own accord, instead.

"Oh!" she said, gasping, clutching her chest with her hand as if in heart-attack. "Jesus! What the hell are you doing lurking in my doorway?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "You're obviously, um, leaving."

"I was just going down for the post," she said. "I can go later. Come on in."

She stepped back and turned to head up the stairs into the flat. He followed her. "Someone likes to leave your building door open," he said.

She faced him again once she'd reached the flat proper, confusion evident on her face. "What?"

"I promise you I don't regularly lurk in doorways."

She laughed. "I don't know," she said. "I've found you out there twice now." She stopped and turned to look at him. "So what brings you by?" she asked, then quickly added, "Not that it isn't nice to see you again."

He'd been so busy in the week or so since he'd had coffee with her, busy with the finishing touches for his parents' fortieth anniversary party on Boxing Day (which he'd taken on since Natasha was no longer doing so), busier even still undoing all of those New York plans he'd made, that he hadn't had a chance to breathe let alone stop by to see her again. The reason he was here made him more than a little nervous, and he put his hands in his coat pockets. 

"It's very nice to see you too," Mark said. "If not for the fact that I've been terribly busy, I might have stopped by sooner."

"Too busy defending the world from evil again to use a phone?" she said. The teasing in her voice was unmistakeable.

"Other things," he said deliberately vaguely, "one of which is actually the reason I am here today."

Her brows shot up in surprise. "Oh?"

He nodded. "How's your schedule look for the Christmas holiday?"

He didn't know what she was expecting him to say, but his question was clearly not it. "Um. With my parents in Grafton Underwood."

"Good," he said. "That means you'll already be there." As he said it, he realised it sounded like he thought her answer in the affirmative was a foregone conclusion when nothing could be further from the truth.

"If you're trying to pique my interest," she said, "you're doing an excellent job. There for what?"

Hiding the nervousness he felt, he said, "I'd like it very much if you came as my guest to my parents' Ruby Wedding party." He paused, then elaborated, "As my date."

"Ah." That single syllable seemed infused with amusement, even delight; her smile confirmed the latter. "Yes. I'd love to."

He hadn't realised how much he'd been dreading a refusal until he felt the relief of her acceptance wash over him. He grinned. "Terrific."

"Is this a fancy 'do?" she asked.

"Not formal," he said. "A nice dress will suffice."

"Great," she said. "Am I skipping Christmas Dinner for this?"

"No, sorry," he said; in his anxiety he'd forgotten to tell her when it actually was. "Boxing Day. I'll pick you up at noon at your parents', if that's all right."

"Oh," she said, sounding a little disappointed.

"Is that all right?" he asked.

"Yes, that's fine," she said. "I would have liked to have skipped the yearly gravy drama, though."

He chuckled. "Sorry to disappoint in that respect."

"Oh!" she said suddenly, obviously distraught. "Maybe I shouldn't. I mean go with you." She bit her lower lip. "What about… you know… Natasha?"

His momentary inner panic, that she was having second thoughts, disappeared very quickly. "Natasha is no longer… will not be present."

Her expression clouded over a bit. "I'm sorry."

Without hesitation, he said, "I'm not."

Instantly she smiled again; in fact, he thought maybe she hadn't really stopped smiling since he'd asked. "I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I," he said. He thought maybe he hadn't really stopped smiling either. "I must be off," he continued, which was a lie; he had no other pressing matter to attend to that afternoon, but he did not wish to impose himself on her free time.

"Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye," he returned.

After considering it for a moment, he supposed it would not hurt to give her a quick little kiss on his way out, seeing as things were on track for him to stay in London, he was free of previous personal attachments, and an actual date with Bridget was now arranged, so he took a step forward and bent to give her a peck.

What he did not expect was an almost magnetic pull to her that caused him to kiss her again, coupled with her lifting herself up on her toes to better reciprocate with a little more eagerness, a little more passion, than he was anticipating.

He broke away, rising to his full height, and looked down to her and her wide blue eyes, slightly parted lips, and the barest hint of a smile. "Until then," she said quietly.

He said nothing more, just nodded a little as he took a step back, then turned to descend the stairs and leave the flat.

He had supposed it would not hurt to give her that kiss, but as he stepped out onto the street below, he realised now that it had been a mistake to kiss her… or at least a mistake not to keep kissing her. But no, he thought, it was best to have departed when he did, because if he'd kept kissing her, he might not have been unable to stop himself from going further… and he needed to wait. She was worth it.

She had a way of staying in his thoughts that was unlike any woman he'd ever known.


	2. Chapter 2

The more Mark thought about it, the more he realised he was looking forward more to his parents' anniversary party than he was to Christmas. Then again, it occurred to him that there was slightly more to look forward to. He enjoyed the holiday, the gift exchange, and time with his family, but it had been a long time since he had been excited about the presence of Father Christmas, and even then it had been a long time since he had anticipated anything half as much as his date with Bridget.

He got up early on Boxing Day to shower, shave, and don his nicest dress suit. He was completely ready for the day when he went down to the kitchen to find his mother was eating breakfast and reading the newspaper while still in her dressing gown. She looked up at him like he'd gone mad.

"Mark," she said. "The caterers aren't even due to arrive until eleven."

"I know," he said. "There's a lot to take care of before then."

"You look very nice," she said, looking him up and down approvingly, "though I thought you were going to wear the gift from your aunt."

He knew she was referring to the snowman tie she had given him. "I changed my mind."

"Hm, she'll be a little disappointed," she said, sipping her tea, returning her attention to the paper. He poured himself a coffee, had a pastry and sat with her in comfortable silence as he ate. When he finished, he pushed back from the table and got to his feet.

"Where are you going?" she asked, looking up at him. "What's all this nervous energy about? Haven't you asked her yet?" She smiled, but it looked a bit forced.

"Asked her?"

"Natasha."

In his busy state, he realised he had neglected to bring his own mother up to speed on his personal life. "Bit of a change of plans." After he briefed her on how the entire planned move to New York had been called off and how he had broken things off with Natasha, she could only sit there mutely looking at him like he'd gone from mad to absolutely psychotic.

"Mark," she said at last. "That's a little more than a bit. What brought this on?"

"A little self-examination," he said. "I realised it was not what I really wanted."

"So that brings me back to my original curiosity," she began. "You're up, you're dressed, and you look positively skittish. What's going on?"

He bent and kissed her cheek. "I think I've figured out what I do really want."

She looked at him, slightly confused, but smiled back at him, and this time it was genuine. "You have, haven't you?" she asked tenderly.

With a smile he nodded again then went to walk off some energy by ensuring the decorations were in place, the tables were set up and ready for the trays of food, plates, wine and glasses. He paced a bit until the arrival of the caterers, and was just directing them to the kitchen and the dining room when his mother reappeared, looking beamingly happy in her blue jacket and tartan skirt, followed closely behind by his father. 

"Oh, everything looks so gorgeous, Mark. Thank you," she said, looking around herself. "With everything else you've been doing—and undoing—I can't tell you how much it means to us." She gave him a hug, and he embraced her in return.

"Really," he said, stepping back, "for all you both have given me, it's the least I can do. Now, one last order of business." He reached down where, on the nearby table, sat a pair of boutonnières, a rosebud for his mother, and a blooming rose for his father. He picked up his mother's and carefully pinned it into place on her right lapel, then did the same for his father's left.

Mark glanced to his watch. It was eleven-forty. Time to go pick up Bridget.

"Do you have somewhere else you have to be?" said his father jokingly.

"For a very short while, yes," he said, grinning. "I'll be back." He looked to his mother. "And I think when I return you'll understand, and, I think, approve."

He slipped into his coat and headed for his car, setting off on the short drive to get her, trying all the while to remain cool and nonchalant, and not at all the anxious bundle of nerves he really was. He wasn't even sure why he felt this way, not when she had really seemed to turn around after learning the truth of his past with Daniel.

He pulled up in front of her parents' house, switched off the ignition, and looked at the front of the house, then looked at his watch again. Eleven-fifty.

Shouldn't matter if he was a little early, should it?

He strode to the front door, then knocked. When no one came to the door right away, he rang the bell. Within moments, the door swung open. It was Bridget's mother, holding a large-brimmed hat in her hand and wearing a stunned look on her face.

"Mark!" 

"Hello, Mrs Jones," he said, thinking how uncanny the family resemblance was. "I'm here for Bridget."

She didn't speak or move; she only blinked. "Bridget?"

"Your daughter."

"Yes, yes," she said, shaking her head as if willing herself to snap out of a fugue. "Why are you here for Bridget?"

It occurred to him at that moment that for whatever reason Bridget had not told her mother about their date of sorts. However, Mark did not need to explain, for in that short span of time Pam seemed to have worked it out on her own, and her eyes grew very large.

"Oh," she said. " _Ohh!_ " She stepped back to let him in. "Come in, come in," she said, her hand fluttering about her throat. "I'll go up and get her." She offered an almost comically broad smile, then headed up the stairs. "Just wait right there."

Approximately thirty seconds later, he heard Bridget's unmistakeable voice.

"Why didn't you wake—oh my God! It's noon!"

A pause. Her mother speaking in return, too low for him to make out the words.

"Oh my God, _he's here already?_ "

A few more seconds later, Pam Jones reappeared at the top of the stairs, that same smile plastered in place. "She'll need a few minutes. Why don't you wait in the front room just there—you know where it is—"

"Of course," he said, trying to hide his amusement at the fact that she had still been asleep in bed.

He walked about the room, looking at the framed photos of her parents and of her, and he could not help but smile at the adorable blue-eyed blonde child smiling back at him. It occurred to him that her parents' house reminded him very much of her own flat; a mish-mash of designs and styles but undeniably an all-over feeling of comfort and love.

"Mark."

He turned to find Mr Jones standing there. "Hello, sir."

"Pam's asked me to see if there's anything I can get for you. Coffee, orange juice, shot of brandy…"

Mark chuckled despite himself, then realised that perhaps the older man wasn't kidding about the brandy. "That won't be necessary, but thank you."

Mr Jones put his hands in his pockets. Mark got the distinct feeling he was about to be cross-examined. "I'm a little surprised Bridget didn't mention this to us," he said. "Also surprised she accepted, given what you said to her last New Year's Day."

He was ashamed to think of the things Bridget had overheard him say about her, things she had clearly turned around and told her father about. "I assure you that I have apologised in spades for such appalling behaviour and for how very wrong I'd been to say what I did," Mark was quick to explain. "It's all been worked out."

He did not look mollified. 

Mark carried on. "Let me apologise to you as well. I came that day rather against my will because of my mother—" He stopped speaking when he realised belatedly that he had just admitted to his host at the time that he had been forced to come to their Turkey Curry Buffet. "It's not a good time of year for me, I was not inclined to be very sociable, and my mother kept pushing me—" He cleared his throat, sensing he was veering once more into dangerous territory. "—towards your lovely, _lovely_ daughter; nothing against the party itself, and not that I don't enjoy time with my parents, and family friends, because I do… did… _still_ do, obviously, as I'm throwing them this party today. But I am truly sorry. And then Bridget and I had a minor misunderstanding about—" He was thinking of Daniel and his own ex-wife, and decided to keep details to a minimum. "—some other things… but again, all sorted out."

It had all rather come out in a single breath, so agitated was Mark to make a good impression on a father who loved his daughter very much, whose good opinion he cared greatly to have. Mark watched as Colin Jones' rather stern, fatherly look transformed into a smile, then he began to chuckle and finally laugh. "Good grief, Mark," he said, grinning. "You sound just like her."

Mark drew his brows together just as Mrs Jones reappeared, looking slightly more at ease. "Everything all right?" she asked.

Colin patted Mark on his shoulder. "Everything's grand," he said. "Two peas in a pod, after all, Pam. You were right."

It struck Mark just then what Colin's comment had meant. Mark was not sure exactly if it had been what he'd said that had changed the man's opinion of him, or how he'd said it… but he was glad for it, either way.

Pam looked extremely smug. "Bridget won't be but a moment more," said Pam. "You're such a patient man, Mark; isn't he, Colin?"

"Yes, love," he said. "Come now, let's not hover like a pair of chaperones. You still have to get your hat in place, my dear."

"Hush," she said tartly. "My hat won't take a moment—"

Pam continued to speak, but he did not hear her; at that very moment, Bridget had appeared and looked absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous, even with the sheepish expression she wore. Her dress was long-sleeved and black, came to mid-calf, suited her figure perfectly and dipped daringly low in the front, showing off more than her pretty silver necklace; her hair was down loose around her face save for a single hairpin that kept it swept off to the side; she was wearing sheer black hose and heels, held her clutch purse unsurely as she came in.

"Sorry," she said.

He willed his eyes to rise from her neckline. "It's… it's quite all right."

"I'll get your coat," said her mother, who traipsed off into the entryway.

"You look very nice," he said.

Her lips, lovely and pink, shaped into a smile at last. "Don't look so bad yourself," she said.

Her mother returned with the coat and offered it to Bridget.

"No," said Mark. "Allow me."

He took the coat and held it up so that she could slip her arms into it; she practically threw her purse at her mother in order to do so. After the coat was in place, she turned to look at him, her cheeks faintly red. "Shall we, then?"

"Let's." He held out his hand to allow her to precede him.

"Bridget!"

Her mother, thrusting her bag back at her.

"Thanks."

He followed her out; her mother closed the inner door behind them just as they passed through the outer one. Almost immediately upon closing it, she said, facing him, "I am so sorry, Mark; I didn't tell them about our date because my mother, well, you know my mother, and no one knew to wake me—"

She might have kept on going, but he quickly dropped his head to plant a kiss on her lips. She seemed receptive for a moment but then pushed away. "Mark," she said, then cocked her head to the window, just in time for Mark to see the curtain flutter; surely her mother had been taking a peek out. Her colour deepened even further. Frankly, a blush on her skin was very becoming.

"I just meant there's no need to explain. Come on," he said, extending his elbow to her. "Don't want to be late to my own party."

She smiled, slipping her arm through his for the very short walk to the car. He released her only to open the car door for her, then waited to close it for her.

As he sat behind the wheel, he said, "You do look gorgeous."

He glanced over to her to see the tail end of a smile. "Not bad for a slap dash job, I suppose."

He turned on the ignition. "I'm glad you didn't have more time, then," he said. "You might have upstaged my mother at her own party, and while she likes you, I'm not sure that's a healthy way to begin things."

As he put the vehicle into gear, he heard her chuckle.

The drive back to his parents house seemed all too long and all too short at the same time. "We're here," he said, rather stating the obvious as he put the car into park, then disengaged the engine. He looked over to her to find she was already looking at him.

"So we are." She smiled, then laughed nervously. "I don't know why I feel so worked up. It's not like I don't know these people."

"I hope it's not me," he said.

"No," she said quickly; almost too quickly, he thought. He simply smiled again.

They got out of the car and, after extending his elbow once more, walked with her to the door. As they got to the top of the stairs, her foot slipped on a patch of ice or snow, and she fell into him; instinctively his arm came around her waist and caught her. She looked up gratefully with a smile. "Close call," she said. "Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," he said, helping her upright again, his hand lingering at her waist. "I'll get someone to take care of that."

Unexpectedly she chuckled. At his undoubtedly quizzical look, she explained, "Spoken like the lord of the manor."

He knew she meant it as a joke, but something about it embarrassed him, and he looked down.

"Hey," she said. "I was only kidding."

"I know," he said, his eyes fixed on her silver heart pendant. "I just don't want you to think of me as—"

"Mark," she interrupted. "Right now I'm thinking of you as the guy that's staring at my chest." His eyes flashed up to meet hers; he felt his skin flood with heat. For her part she was grinning madly.

"It was your necklace," he hastened to explain.

"It's all right if you were," she said. "It breaks you out of the lord of the manor stereotype."

At that, he laughed, felt immediately more at ease. He thought it was a good beginning; they each earnestly wanted to assure the other through embarrassing situations.

He reached for the door handle and twisted it, leading her in.

"Wow," she said, her eyes scanning the entryway; the furniture, the paintings, the decorations for the party. "This is just… wow."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm glad you think so."

He helped her out of her coat, then hung it and his own. One of the staff had been assigned to greet guests and gather coats, but they weren't in place yet, as the party didn't officially start until one in the afternoon, twenty minutes away.

"Mark?" came his mother's voice. "Is that you? Where have you—?" As she rounded the corner she saw the two of them and stopped speaking in her surprise. She looked from her son, to Bridget, then back to her son again. He could see the smile at the corners of her mouth in concert with her undoubted recollection of Mark's earlier words. "Well, hello Bridget," she said. "Very nice to see you. Glad you could come today."

"Thank you for inviting me."

"While we're happy to have you here," she said almost playfully, "you are most definitely here at Mark's invitation."

Mark glanced to Bridget, and saw she was turning pink. She looked up to him bashfully.

"Why don't you show her around, Mark?" said his mother. "Everything's under control. We're just waiting for guests to arrive."

"That'd be wonderful," said Bridget. "I'd love to see more of the house you grew up in."

"Of course," said Mark. Turning to his mother, he added, "There's a bit of an icy patch on the front steps. Will you have someone—?"

"Oh dear me, yes. Can't have anyone slipping and falling."

He caught Bridget smirking.

He brought her into the room where the party was actually being held, where the caterers were preparing glasses upon glasses to pour sparkling wine into, and trays of finger foods at the ready off to the side. "Would you like a drink? I could have them pour us a couple of flutes."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea on an empty stomach," she said.

Mentally he slapped himself on the forehead. He had brought her here practically just after waking. "What would you like to eat?" He indicated the table with the foodstuffs. Her eyes went very wide. 

"My goodness," she said breathlessly. "There's so much to choose from."

In the end, she had a plate fixed with prawn wontons, tomato and mozzarella tartlets and chicken satay sticks. He asked for one for himself as well, along with two flutes and some cloth napkins.

"Let's find somewhere to eat," he said. "Then we can continue the tour if you like."

"Okay."

He decided to bring her to a sitting room in the rear of the house that was closed off for the party. Decorated in antique whites and dusty roses, it was his mother's favourite to sit and read in, as the room got plenty of indirect sunlight all day for most of the year. They could have some privacy as they ate before returning to the party to socialise with family and friends.

"This is a very lovely room," she said, taking a seat on the sofa, placing her flute on the glass-topped Queen Anne-style coffee table. "Very cosy."

"Mum's favourite. One of my favourite rooms too," he admitted, sitting beside her, handing her a napkin. It suddenly made sense why he liked her flat so much.

"Thanks."

The bite-sized nature of the lunch could have meant disaster, with sauce-covered bits falling on dress and tie alike, but thankfully nothing of the sort happened. He caught himself staring a little too long at her pulling her sullied fingertips through her lips. She caught him too, and smiled abashedly, cleaning her fingers instead on her napkin.

"That was very delicious," she said. "Well done, indeed. My compliments to the catering team."

"I'll be sure to pass that on." He set his empty plate on the table, then reached for hers to do the same. She handed it to him, but then picked up her drink.

"We should have, I don't know, a toast or something." She held it up, looking like she was thinking on the subject very hard. He picked his up too, waiting for her to speak. "Here's to old clichés proving true," she said at last, then explained: "You know. Like the one about opposites attracting."

He chuckled, then touched the rim of his cup to hers before taking a long draw off of the sparkling wine, nearly emptying the flute. So did she. "As clichés go," he said, "I rather like the ones that aren't proved true. Like never getting a second chance to make a good impression."

"I thought that was a first impression."

"Whichever," he said. "I'm just glad for the second chance."

She smiled, then laughed lightly. "Yeah," she said at last. "Me too."

Her gaze, intense and unflinching, was fixed to his. Nothing about it was uncomfortable, but rather the opposite; he realised at that moment he wanted very much to kiss her again. He set his flute down, took hers from her hand, then took her hand in his.

"I'm glad you're here with me," he said quietly.

He had intended on placing his hand on her cheek, stroking it with his thumb, studying her eyes for a moment or two more before leaning to gently kiss her. His plans, however, were derailed when she dove forward and, placing her free hand on the nape of his neck, pulled him into a kiss that wasted no time whatsoever in becoming quite heated and passionate.

He released her hand so that he could slip his over her waist and encircle her with his arm, drawing her close; as he leaned with her against the back of the sofa, he brought his other hand up to cradle her face, tracing his fingers over her cheek, then throat, then collarbone, stopping when he felt the silver chain under the pads of his fingers. He was not going to move too quickly and ruin things, even if he was quite enjoying kissing her.

"Mark!"

The sound of his own name in his father's voice startled him enough that he nearly jumped to his feet, but he quickly realised that after that kiss, standing at that moment would have been a bad idea. Instead he pulled back from her to face his father.

"Sorry to shout," Malcolm said, looking with barely disguised amusement at Bridget, "but you weren't responding before I did. Hello, Bridget."

"H-hello, Admiral Darcy," she said meekly, her hands primly on her lap again.

"We'd like to do the toast in a few minutes," he continued. "Would very much like our only son to be there. And, of course, his new girlfriend."

Mark felt himself blush quite against his will. "Be right there," he said. His father took the hint and left.

He looked to her at last. She was smiling, and her bright blue eyes were shining. "They think of me as your girlfriend?"

"If I may be so bold," he said, "I'd rather like to think of you that way, too."

He didn't think it possible, but her smile widened. "Not bold at all," she said. She reached her hand up and he thought he might have to call upon every ounce of strength he possessed to resist another kiss, but she only drew her fingers over his mouth as if wiping something from them. "You'd look a little strange making a toast to your parents with pink lips," she explained.

At that he laughed, then reached for the cloth napkin to properly wipe it off. She took her own and did the same, then leaned in for one last brief kiss before she got to her feet, opened her bag and fished out a compact and a tube of lipstick. He watched her reapply colour to her lips for a moment before looking away, concentrating instead on continuing to compose himself enough to stand in front of a crowd.

This arduous task thankfully did not take much longer, and he rose, extending his elbow to her again before leading her back into the party. He'd come back for the discarded plates and flutes later. He had an entrance to make with the most beautiful girl in the room on his arm.

………

The toast went well. His father did the actual toast, which was a very touching tribute to his forty year marriage and a wife that he clearly loved very much. Malcolm also tipped his figurative hat to his son, causing Mark to feel a little embarrassed at the praise. They had their toast flutes, but she still had her hand on his arm; he felt her squeeze gently. He looked down to her and she was smiling.

"We love our son," continued Malcolm, "and we couldn't be prouder of anything he does, of the choices he's made, of the man he is. It might be selfish of us to say, but we're especially proud of his last-minute decision to stay in England… and I venture to say you would all agree, too, that he made the right choice."

As Malcolm called for a toast to Mark, he saw her brows furrow momentarily as she glanced up to him again. She raised her glass and drank to him along with everyone, though, as he heard the crowd respond with their toast.

The party guests returned to random socialising. It became quickly evident as Bridget slipped her arm from his that something was bothering her; she was curiously quiet as they began to walk again.

"Mark! Bridget!"

It was Una Alconbury, clad in an outrageously bold red dress, beside herself with excitement as she approached the pair of them. "Una," Mark said. "Thanks for coming today."

"Of course," she said. "Lovely party! So surprised to hear you aren't going to New York after all! What changed your mind, hm? _Hm_ _?_ " She looked pointedly to Bridget with a beaming smile. Bridget looked distinctly uncomfortable and glanced away. "And don't the two of you look adorable together! Didn't we know? Didn't we?"

"It would appear so," said Mark pleasantly. "If you'll excuse us…"

"Of course, of course," said Una. "So many people to chat up…" She smiled and gave them a little wink before she sauntered away.

"Bridget," said Mark quietly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she said.

It was patently not true, but he didn't think it was wise to press it in the middle of the party. Instead he slipped his arm around her, gently grasping her shoulder with his fingers. He meant it as a show of support but he realised it might not have been the right time or place for it, because he heard Geoffrey make a comment:

"Copping a feel, eh?"

Geoffrey reached his hand forward, but before he could touch her Mark glared at him and he pulled it away, retreating as if Mark looked on the verge of murder. Perhaps he was. He had never really considered before how much of an old letch Geoffrey was.

He heard the music stop; up to that point it had been mostly background music, but he knew that this meant that his parents were going to have their dance. Party guests began to part like the waters of the Red Sea as the strings kicked up again; Malcolm led Elaine to the middle of the dance floor and took their position, then began to dance. It was a joy to watch them move around the floor together; it was evident that they had danced together many times before, their movements fluid and practised. It was also evident that they still loved each other as much as they had the day they married, between the smiles on their faces and the loving looks they gave one another, and Mark felt himself smiling without conscious thought.

To his surprise, he felt her hand on his back. He looked down and saw that Bridget was smiling, too. Mark did not care for dancing, did not think he was especially talented on the dance floor; nonetheless, he leaned down and asked, "Would you care for a dance?"

She looked up to him, beaming brightly. "I would love a dance."

They swivelled to face one another; he took her hand in his, felt her free hand on his arm, and he turned her onto the dance floor, her dress flaring out behind her as he did. It was only after they were dancing that he realised no one else but his parents were doing so. He heard a murmur of chatter around them, but it didn't bother him; if it bothered her, she didn't show it. In fact, she looked very happy, and he could not take his eyes off her for the entire length of their dance.

He was vaguely aware of the murmur rising around him; he saw his parents were standing still, looking at him, at them, fondly from the sidelines. He then realised that the music had stopped, and quickly he ceased moving, offering a smile to the party crowd. He saw Bridget turn bright pink. When the guests began to politely applaud, he decided to take it in stride, took her hand, and bowed slightly at the waist. She started to giggle and did a half-hearted curtsey.

"Well," he said as they left the dance floor, their hands still joined. "Anyone who hadn't figured things out yet… I think that was their clue."

She squeezed the hand that was in her own, and instead of stopping when he did, she kept on walking, tugging him forward, pulling him out into the entryway then into the area where all of the coats were. They were alone, although it was hardly private. She turned and faced him, her expression still soft, but her brow slightly lined.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, not now, but you asked me what was wrong earlier," she said. "I kind of lied."

He had been right, but said nothing, just let her speak.

"What your father said, about staying. You were supposed to be going to New York?"

He nodded.

"For… a little while?"

"For good."

Bridget looked thoughtful. "Why didn't you go?"

"It's not what I really wanted," he answered truthfully.

"You didn't… stay just because of me, did you?" she asked, then added, "Because I don't know if I can handle that kind of pressure."

She looked so distraught that he could not help his response; hoping to raise her spirits, he lifted his hand to cup her face and, with a smile, he said, "Don't flatter yourself."

She giggled as he kissed her quickly on the lips.

"In all honesty," he said, taking her hands in his, "you and I patching things up got me to thinking about other aspects of my life I was not happy with, and I realised I had a choice. I could continue on the way things were going, go to New York and be far from my family, eventually entering into another business arrangement-style marriage with a woman I didn't really love… or I could take a different path. Do what I wanted and not what I was expected to do, and not sacrifice my happiness in the process. And if that path brought us together… well, even better."

The smile that spread across her face was a pleasure to see. "Oh."

Despite what he'd said, it wasn't the entire truth: part of the reason he'd decided to go in the first place was because he thought all hope had been lost with her, and all he'd wanted to do was forget. Once he'd known otherwise….

However, she was right; it was too much pressure to put on a woman who'd only agreed to be his girlfriend less than an hour ago.

"I'm glad we cleared that up," he said, squeezing her hands in his. "What do you say, then, to another dance, maybe some more champagne?"

She grinned. "I suppose the champagne first if no one else is dancing. Then I won't mind making such a spectacle of myself."

Chuckling, he extended his elbow once more, and as she had multiple times that day, she slipped her hand through it, walking with him back to the party.


	3. Chapter 3

After a few hours and many dances, the food buffet was replaced by the dessert buffet, and all manner of sweets, including mini éclairs, cheesecake squares with fruit sauces, chocolate cake, petit fours and other biscuits, were hauled in along with carafes of fresh, strong coffee and water for tea. As late as it was in the year, the sun was already setting at the relatively early hour of four o'clock, and some of the guests with longer drives were starting to depart.

The delight with which Bridget's eyes had scanned over the platters of treats, a delight she tried mightily to conceal, amused him and endeared her to him even more. He tried to imagine his ex-wife or Natasha choosing a single piece of dessert, let alone four, and could not conceive of such a thing.

He had directed her to take the dessert plates and nab a couple of seats for them while he fetched the coffees. Hers was light and sweet, his was black, the sight of which made her go a bit pale. "And here I gave you that milky sweet crap at my flat," she said, horrified, "when you prefer it black."

"I told you it was fine," he said. "I only hope I got the right amount of sweet for you."

She took a sip and closed her eyes, clearly savouring the taste. "Perfect."

"Good."

She grinned lopsidedly at him. "Is there anything you don't do well?" As the words leapt from her mouth she looked like she wished she could immediately take them back; she covered her mouth with her hand. "Sorry."

"Plenty of things I don't do well," he said, sipping his coffee, trying to smooth over her tiny, slightly suggestive gaffe. "I cannot play the flute. I can't sew a stitch to save my life. I have never been able to cook a decent soufflé—and I have never been able to speak well from the heart to a girl I fancy."

She was giggling at his admissions—all of which were true—until the last, at which she immediately turned serious. "That last one is definitely untrue," she said, then added in a more light-hearted tone, "unless you're saying you don't fancy me."

He didn't say anything to that at first, simply looked at her intently until her skin flushed once more, and she broke their gaze to examine the remains on her plate.

"I think I've made that plain otherwise," he said.

He saw her smile a little before raising her eyes to him again. He suddenly wished he were anywhere but at his parents', anywhere but Grafton Underwood, because even if they were to leave the party there was really nowhere to go, especially nowhere to go to have the type of privacy he'd like to have with her.

Quite to his surprise, he felt her hand over his under the table. "Yes," she said, stroking the back of his fingers with her thumb. "I suppose you have."

Thoughts warred in his head: he did not want to rush things with her, because this was their first official date, after all; on the other hand, he found her so beautiful, so desirable, that making love to her was literally the only thing he could think about at the present moment.

"You know," she continued quietly, "we never did finish that tour you promised me."

Now it was his turn to feel at a loss for words, and he could only nod in response.

"After dessert?" she asked. Had her tone been brighter, he might have believed she was truly interested in seeing the rest of the house.

"It would be my pleasure."

She pulled her hand away in order to cup her drink with both hands, her eyes still intent on him over the rim of the mug, before she set it back down. She picked up her fork, cut into her cake, and said, "Well, the sooner we finish dessert…"

He found himself taking a fork in hand as well, in order to take the corner off of his cheesecake. He might have ventured to say it was the finest confection he'd ever had if he had consciously registered the taste in the process of eating it.

There was only a bare hint of coffee left when he reached for her hand again, met her eyes with his own; he was perfectly willing to overlook the remains in order to take her away from the party. There was nothing he wanted to say to her, at least not with words, and with the intensity of her own gaze—

"You two seem to be having a marvellous time together."

He turned his head quickly to see Pam Jones, wearing the hat she'd been holding earlier, looking pleased as punch to see them sitting there together.

"Mother," said Bridget, exasperated.

"Indeed we are," he said, not willing to bow to parental nosiness. "In fact, Bridget was just telling me about—" He faltered momentarily.

"—growing up in Buckingham," she supplied quickly.

"Yes, yes," he said.

"Oh, how darling," she cooed. "Reminiscing your childhood together. Well, I best find Daddy; we're going to be leaving soon. Have fun, and don't be out too late." She smiled again, then bounced off in search of Colin Jones.

As soon as he could no longer see Pam, he turned back to Bridget, who was grinning wickedly. "At the time, I believe I was half your age, you cradle robber."

At that he laughed, rose to his feet and pulled her up, too. "About that tour," he said quietly as he tucked her hand into his elbow and strode with her out of the main room. He had no idea where he was going to head next, only that it was going to be private.

"I can't believe it," she said, apparently awestruck by the grandeur of the Darcy family home once again. "Your entryway looks like an art gallery."

He had to admit it rather did. "We have libraries that look like capital-L libraries too," he said.

She smiled, craning her head up. "How can you even see all of it from down here?" she asked.

He turned and pointed up. "The very top ones are best seen from the second floor landing."

She turned to him, her smile turning impish, then she pulled her hand from where he'd secured it and headed up the stairs. He followed her, stood beside her as she gazed out to the paintings. "And are all of these people ancestors?" she asked.

"Most of them, I think. I've never been able to read all the name plates on the frames."

As if he had overtly dared her, she bent over the railing to try to get a better look, her necklace dangling as she leaned forward.

He grasped her upper arm; she was really in no danger of falling over the edge but instinct had kicked in. She stood upright again and turned to look at him, her eyes bright and locked with his.

"I didn't want you falling," he explained, his voice papery.

She reached for his hand, stepping closer to him, studying him very intently until she spoke at last in a voice so low he could barely hear her: "Too late." With that, she lifted herself up on her toes and boldly covered his mouth with her own. Her arms came up and around his neck; his encircled her waist, then rose to her upper back as he felt her lean on the railing for a little support.

It was not the privacy he'd had in mind, because all anyone had to do as go into the entryway and look up, but he could care about little else as he held her close to him, kissing her with an escalating passion. When he finally did break away, his fingers lifted to pluck the hairpin from her hair so he could comb his fingers through, and the sight of her—mussed hair, rosy cheeks, parted lips—surrounded by the centuries' worth of family paintings in a blur behind her brought into sharp contrast how unlike anything in his life she was.

"Is something wrong?" she asked breathlessly, searching his eyes.

"No," he returned. "Nothing is wrong. Well. Except…" He trailed off, not wanting to be too obvious about his intent to get her alone.

"What?" she gasped.

"This isn't the best place for… this." He tucked her hair behind her ear, then ran his fingers over her cheek and jaw.

"Hm, too true," she said. "Would be quite a spectacle to fall to our deaths while snogging at your parents' Ruby Wedding."

He chuckled, then pulled her into another kiss. He only meant it to be a quick peck but found himself unable to stop again, especially when he felt her fingernails raking through his hair and down over his sideburns.

"I don't suppose," she said near his ear, her breath hot on his cheek, "there are any other rooms you could show me?"

She was not making his resistance to take things further than he should any easier.

He stepped back, running his hands down over her arms, the fabric soft and silky under his fingertips, in order to take her hands in his. "I like you," he said. "Very much."

"You've said so," she said, looking slightly puzzled. "And I like you too. Very much."

"I don't think it's any secret," he said quietly, all too aware how sound travelled through the entryway, "that I'm very attracted to you. That I… want you."

She smiled; it was amusement and appreciation at the same time. "You're sweet," she said, brushing her thumbs over the backs of his fingers. "And yes. It's no secret. It don't think it is for either of us."

The thought that she wanted him too made his heart race a little faster, but he carried on. "That isn't all it is for me though," he said, "and I never want to give the appearance otherwise."

She looked at him as if working though a difficult math problem. "So are you saying," she said at last, the delight in her voice impossible to ignore, "that you like me too much to want to sleep with me?"

For all of his rationalisations to himself, when she put it like that, it sounded very silly. He chuckled. "I like you too much," he elaborated, "to want you to think for a moment that sleeping with you is all I want from you."

She stepped forward to be closer to him. "Message received," she said. "On with the tour, then."

He released one hand, then slipped his arm around her at the waist, kissing her on the cheek before whispering back to her, "On with the tour, then." 

With her hand still clasped in his, he led her through the second floor, absently pointing out things of no real consequence only to cover the undercurrent thrumming through his blood: he was taking her to his bedroom, and she wanted him to take her there.

Naturally the room had been tidied, the bed made, everything in perfect, meticulous order. "Nice," she said, entering first and looking around. "Looks like it belongs in a museum, too, and three times the size of my flat, but nice."

He chuckled at her exaggerations as he closed the door behind him, careful to flip the lock. He did not need any embarrassing interruptions.

It was full dark out now; he switched the lamp on and drew the curtains.

"It must have been strange," she said, clasping her hands in front of her.

"What?" he asked, coming close to her again.

"Growing up with a bedroom like this."

He smiled. "I was allowed to make a mess, you know. I could have more than one toy out of the toy box at a time."

"I'm having a hard time imagining you as a messy child. Or as a child at all," she said. "I can't do it. I can only picture you as a miniature you, as you are now."

He was intrigued. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"Well, you know," she said, looking like she might have thought she'd stepped in it big time. "Orderly, precise, decisive, thoughtful; always immaculately groomed, perfect manners, dressed in little suits…"

He chuckled. 

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she was quick to add. "I rather like that about you. You're a gentleman."

"I'm not always," he said. "I'm not perfect."

"You're more perfect than I am, by a long shot."

"Hm," he said. "On that point I beg to differ."

She smiled shyly, which was so endearing to him that he swept up to her, took her face in his hand, and kissed her tenderly. This naturally bloomed quickly into something much more, and he continued kissing her with a greater and greater passion; knowing they were alone, knowing she wanted him too, it was as if some kind of block had been released. She had her fingers in his hair again; he moved his hands across her back, to her sides. She pushed back suddenly, though, ran her fingers down over the lapels, and fixed his eyes with her own.

"It's a very nice suit. Nice shirt and tie, too," she said, then looked down as her fingers came up to his tie and began working on the knot. "Would hate for any of it to get ruined in any way."

In a flash he was shucking the suit jacket, pulling off the tie; she chuckled as her hands rested on his chest again, then went for his buttons, flipping them open one at a time. Tracing her fingers over the undershirt beneath the cotton dress shirt, she smiled. "How many layers are you wearing, anyway?"

As he could clearly see down the front of her dress, he could not help but retort under his breath, "More than you are, apparently." He brought his hand up, touched his fingers to the skin of her throat, and watched her eyes flutter closed as he traced his fingers downward past the border of her silver chain, along the vee of her collar, until meeting the point of the vee, right between her breasts, briefly dipping down beneath the fabric. As he suspected from the peek he'd had, there was no bra to speak of, no lace or clasp to be found. This puzzled him because he'd been watching her all day, and she was clearly not without support for her ample assets.

He moved his fingers over her dress again, brushing along the side of her breast, before cupping it fully in his hand, sweeping a thumb over the peak. She drew in a sharp breath then looked at him again.

"What manner of magic is this?" he asked throatily as he kissed her once more, pulling her close with his other arm; splaying his hand on her back, he could feel there was no strap, either.

"Hm?" she asked, before he caressed her breast again, before she caught on. "Oh, it's in the dress," she said.

"That's quite a dress," he said.

"You should be thankful," she managed. "The other dress I considered bringing requires the most impossible, bizarre contraption ever— _oh._ "

She had stopped speaking because he had slipped his hand into the dress itself, his fingers playing over her soft skin, teasing her suddenly hard nipple. He had found himself quite at a loss for words too, and so made up for it by kissing her again.

His other hand had drifted down over her backside, and now in reflex he pulled her to him, his fingers pressing into her, pressing her against him and against a firmness he could no longer hide. She made the sexiest little sound into his mouth, arching into him before breaking the kiss, saying desperately, "This one of those times you're not a gentleman?"

He said nothing; instead, he slipped his hand out of her dress to bring it around to her bottom as well, before pulling the skirt of her dress up, then pulling the dress up over her head. He ran his hands over the hosiery covering her pants, her arse, to the waistband, which he then tugged down, causing her to gasp again.

That glimpse he'd gotten of her body at what he still thought of as the Tarts and Vicars picnic did not really prepare him for how lovely, curvy and feminine she was without a bit of clothing on. As a matter of fact, he found himself with a profound lack of verbal skills to adequately convey his feelings on the subject, so after slipping out of his own clothing (with the sheer number of layers, belt buckles, cufflinks, etc., it seemed the most expedient thing to do) he scooped her into his arms again and showed his appreciation by kissing her and running his hands reverently over her bare skin.

It was not long before he was pulling the bedclothes back and lowering her onto the pillows. He had been resolute but not impractical about being alone with her, and so had prepared for any eventuality. As he reached into the bedside table, he was very glad he'd done so.

Having her there with him, pressed against him, warm and soft and naked, he could only pause for a moment to look into her eyes before he kissed her again and completely lost himself in her. He couldn't touch the whole of her quickly enough, couldn't kiss her deeply enough, couldn't get enough of either the soft gasps or muted cries as he made love to her.

When he poised himself above her, joined with her, it was all he could do not to cry out with all his might; instead, he buried his face in her neck, kissed her throat, wove his fingers into her hair as he braced himself up on his forearms, driving into her again and again until each of them in turn was completely satisfied.

He thought that through it all, he had been the consummate gentleman; courteous, giving and attentive in every deed and action. However, through her staggered breaths, blissful smiles and sighs afterwards, she declared it had, much to her delight, been one of those times when he had not.

………

He had no idea for how long he'd dozed, but when he woke he found that she was reclined on her pillow, head rested on her folded elbow, her blue eyes trained on his sleeping form, a lazy smile on her lips, the sheet pulled up over her chest.

"Hm?" he asked drowsily.

She didn't answer right away, just reached forward to flip an unruly lock of hair off of his forehead. "Was just thinking… and watching you sleep."

"Is that a habit of yours?" he asked. "Because if so, we may need to have a talk."

She chuckled. "I hope you mean the watching part."

"Well, yes," he said, pulling into his arms again. "Never stop the thinking part."

She snuggled up to him, resting her hand on his chest. "You know," she said. "I don't think it's even six o'clock yet."

"Six?"

Usually, Mark was an expert at planning from start to finish, but in this endeavour he had failed to think things completely through. Would they get dressed and blithely rejoin the waning party? Surely they had been missed. How to deflect the inevitable questions?

"Mark?" she prompted, craning her head up to look at him. "Something wrong?"

He looked down to where she was resting upon him. "Neglected to advise my mother we'd have a fourth person for supper."

"Ah yes," she said. "The Great Escape. I was thinking about that myself. How to evade the Inquisition."

He chuckled, and without thinking, he bent to kiss her, and again kept kissing her until passion seemed a hair's breadth away from reigniting. She pulled away though. "Maybe we can just stay in here until after dark, then sneak out under cover of night," she continued.

"I keep thinking I should have just taken you to the car and driven you back to London," Mark murmured.

"I think that would have been the longest two hour drive of my life," she said with a little chuckle.

He concurred with a quiet "Mm," then pulled her close again.

To his surprise and horror, a firm knock sounded on the door. "Mark! Bridget! Ten minutes until dinner."

It was his mother's voice.

"Oh. My. God," said Bridget, punctuating every word with her mortification. She turned and buried her face into the pillow, then continued, her voice muffled, "OhmyGodohmyGod _ohmyGod_."

"It'll be all right," he said, pushing himself up onto an elbow, though he wasn't entirely sure how he would be able to live down the humiliation, himself. "My mother will be very discreet."

She turned to look at him. "Your mother is going to hate me," she said, her eyes troubled.

"She doesn't," said Mark. "If she hated you, she wouldn't have said your name too."

Bridget smiled, then began to laugh. He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. It was going to be tough to pull himself away from her.

"How did she even know we were in here?"

"My mother is not stupid," he said, wondering a little himself. "She also knows I'm a grown man, and she wants me to be happy."

"My mother would freak out up one wall and down the other if we shagged in my room." She sat up, pulling the sheet to cover herself, smiling slowly. "Happy, hm?"

"Well, so far I can't complain," he said, stroking her knee. "But if we don't get down for supper, we're out of luck."

"Point taken," she said. He caught her blushing.

"What?"

"Don't watch me get dressed."

He chuckled. "You can't be serious. After that?"

"You get dressed first."

He shrugged. "Sure." He rose from the bed, found his clothing, and started dressing. He looked at her watching him.

"How can you be so not self-conscious?" she asked after many moments.

"I don't know," he said, fastening his trouser button. "How is it that you are? You have a beautiful body, Bridget."

She snorted. "I need to lose about twenty pounds."

"You don't," he insisted. "You're lovely just as you are."

It was that phrase again, and though he hadn't consciously used it, she was clearly touched to hear it. "Let's go have supper," she said; after a moment's hesitation, she threw aside the sheet. "Maybe if your mum is feeling generous she won't mind my staying the night."

"I don't know," he said. "Do you think your mum will let you?"

"Are you kidding?" she said. "I'd never hear the end of it if I told her what we—well. I am just not going to tell her."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure she wouldn't be thrilled. After all, she wanted to fix us up to begin with."

She smiled then lowered her eyes demurely, and for a moment, he almost didn't care about eating dinner.

………

Somehow they were both able to get through dinner without spontaneously combusting from shame in his mother's presence; she was, just as he expected she'd be, friendly and warm to Bridget, and shooting pleased glances towards Mark. His father was blissfully unaware of what had happened, of the subtext of every interaction occurring, and he finished eating first. "Well, off to have my brandy and a cigar. Goodnight son; goodnight, Bridget. Glad you could come back for dinner."

After Mark and Bridget finished eating, they exchanged glances, then pushed back their chairs to get to their feet. His mother spoke before they could. "Bridget," she said, "it's been wonderful having you here today. I hope you know you can stay as long you like."

It was her tactful way of saying she didn't mind Bridget staying over.

Bridget flushed crimson. "Thank you. That's… very generous of you."

"And if your mother asks," she continued, "I haven't seen you." Elaine smiled, then winked.

Mark took Bridget's hand and was once again grateful for his mother's practical wisdom. 

As they walked out of the dining room, Bridget said, "So I don't suppose you could take me back to my parents for my things…?"

He squeezed her hand, stopping short of saying he'd do anything for her, because he was starting to think it might actually be true.

………

Bridget begged him to come into the house with her, reasoning that her mother might be better behaved with him standing there. He agreed. Unsurprisingly, even though Pam Jones greeted Mark with a smile, she still had words for her daughter.

"I'm not sure where you disappeared to in the middle of the party," she said.

"It wasn't the middle of the party, Mother," said Bridget. "We saw you near the end."

"So you're admitting you disappeared?" Pam asked in a stage whisper. "Una said she saw the two of you—"

Mark interrupted as watching her get grilled by her mother was more than he could take. "I took Bridget for a private walk. It was our date and I wanted to spend time with her."

Pam looked a mixture of pleased (for the date) and astounded (that he would interrupt her building up a good head of steam).

"So Mark's taking me back to London," said Bridget before her mother could continue her accurate insinuations. "I'm here for my things." She made a dash for the stairs, and Mark went to follow, but Pam grabbed his suit sleeve. 

"Mark, why don't you wait down here?" she asked, flashing a smile up at him. "She won't be a moment. I'll get you a drink, a coffee, so you can stay perky for your drive."

He knew what she was doing. She didn't want him up there with her daughter, because she thought clearly they would not be able to control themselves, even with her parents right there. Rather than put up a fight, he smiled and accepted.

She brought him into the front room again, where her father was watching telly; they exchanged pleasantries, after which the two of them fell into a comfortable silence. Pam returned shortly with the promised coffee. He almost laughed when he saw it was light with cream; a sip told him it was too sweet.

He had just about choked it down when Bridget reappeared with her bags; she had changed into a pair of jeans, a knit shirt, a hooded zipped sweatshirt and trainers. She looked just as lovely to him as she had in the dress.

"Almost forgot my presents," she said, slightly breathless. "You'll have plenty of room in your boot, won't you?"

Mark nodded.

"Well, Mum, Dad, we're off," she said brightly, embracing her mother and kissing her cheek, then bending to do the same for her dad.

"We will see the two of you for the Turkey Curry Buffet, won't we?" asked Pam, turning her blue eyes up to Mark.

"Wouldn't dream of missing it," said Mark; he glanced to Bridget to see her fighting a laugh. He pointedly looked to his watch. "We should be off, though. Long drive."

Bridget nodded earnestly. "See you on New Year's."

It wasn't until they'd gotten into the car and buckled that Bridget allowed herself the laugh she'd been holding in. "Oh, Mark, please tell me you can park your car somewhere it won't be visible," she said breathlessly. "Because I would not put it past my mother to go looking for it in the dead of night."

He laughed too, switched the ignition on, and put the car into gear. After they were moving, driving the short distance back to his parents', he reached his hand out for hers. He glanced over to where she sat to find she was looking back at him, her eyes shining in the darkness.

"I hope you won't think less of me," she said inexplicably.

"What?" he thought, feeling panic start to set in.

"In packing my things… I know it's in there, but I could not for the life of me find… well, there's a reason I put this on too—" She indicated the hooded sweatshirt. "—and zipped it up nearly all the way."

He had no idea to what she was referring, and his expression must have reflected that confusion, because she elaborated, "There's a layer missing, shall we say."

He finally understood, and he could not help but chuckle. "You will not hear me complain," said Mark, "especially as I hate those bloody clasps."

She chuckled too as he released her hand in order to navigate around to the back of the house to park the car, then silenced the engine. He looked to her, highlighted only by what was passing through the sheers hanging the windows, and could not help himself in leaning forward and kissing her.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"Because I wanted to," he said, "and because I could."

She smiled. "That's an excellent reason."

They left the car and, feeling rather like fugitives, entered the house and stole up to the second floor with her bags, going back to his room. He had an attached bathroom, and she went in there with her bag, closing the door behind her. He removed his suit jacket and shirt again, sat on the bed in his undershirt and trousers, and waited for her return.

"Mark?" she called from within the bathroom.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Please promise me that you won't laugh."

He blinked. "Why would I laugh?"

"Just promise you won't."

"I won't."

The door slipped open and she meekly stepped out. She was wearing a pair of flannel pyjamas in an adorable sheep print. He fought a smile; she looked really humiliated. "It's the only pyjamas I have with me and—" She stopped as an affectionate laugh escaped his throat; she looked almost teary. "Mark, you promised."

He rose from the bed, and with a smile, he smoothed down her hair with his hand. "It isn't that I think you look silly in them," he said. "I think you look beautiful." She scoffed. "No, what I'm surprised to see is the presence of pyjamas at all."

It took a moment for the meaning to filter through, but when it did, she smiled, her cheeks turning pink. He was again overwhelmed by how adorable she was, and he brought his fingers to lift her chin in order to tenderly kiss her.

There were so many sides to her: vivacious, beautiful, funny, smart, sweet, sexy… and the thought of all of those wonderful facets fuelled his desire for her once again. He had most of the buttons on her pyjama top opened before he even realised it, and she broke away with a little chuckle.

"I suppose I had to give you something to take off, didn't I?" she asked quietly.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sunrise/sunset times in London in December 2009](http://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/astronomy.html?n=136&month=12&year=2009&obj=sun&afl=-11&day=1)


End file.
